Blood Of A Stranger
by TheHiddenMemory
Summary: She tells herself to get up and run. Fast. As fast as she can. That this sudden stranger—her apparent savior—could mean nothing good for her. Heroes don't exist.


_**A/N:**_ _Can be Post S3 finale or Post S4 finale…_

 _Evolved/inspired from my previous story 'Esoteric' but completely a standalone fic (ie. no need to have read Esoteric)._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended._

o~O~o

They walk in silence. The street is empty, derelict, and darkened by the late hour.

Finch first hears the cry as they pass the alleyway.

Two figures. One large, one smaller. One male. One female. Reflective of the common and often unfortunate genetic predisposition, the male is the larger of the two. The man has the female pinned against the neighboring wall, clearly against her will. Clothes partially torn, the intent is obvious.

Even cast in shadows from the weak streetlights, one can quite distinctly conclude the nature of the brutality that is unfolding. Feet acting of their own transgression, Finch comes to an abrupt halt in front of the alley. Without thought or prudent consideration for the delicate nature of their own situation that had in fact placed them here in this less than savory part of town, he is swiveling his body in the direction of his companion. "Mr. Reese!" The desperate call escapes him in a rush, unbidden and so automatic that Finch doesn't immediately realize he's spoken. Well acquainted with his own limitations and highly accustomed with Reese's ability to more than fill them, his summon for the ex-CIA agent's intervention tumbles from him without conscious thought.

Only Reese is already gone.

Quicker of senses and faster of reflex, the former agent is halfway up the alley, his sleuth of movement catlike and predatory.

Standing just behind a stack of wooden pallets, the man is too preoccupied to notice the approach. The woman is crying out for him to stop, and making a commendable effort to break free. His fist slams into her stomach.

Reese rips him off her.

She collapses to the pavement.

She tells herself to get up and _run_. _Fast_. As fast as she can. That this sudden stranger—her apparent savior—could mean nothing good for her. Heroes don't exist. Her lungs, however, still won't inflate after the last blow, and her legs won't obey the command.

Finch's progress down the alleyway is significantly slower than Reese's; he's finally drawing level to the scene and jolts to a stop. He decides quickly.

The sound of fist on flesh is unremitting. The man—if one could be so kind to call such a monster a man—in Reese's grasp is bloody and barely conscious.

Finch is more than aware of what Reese is capable of, but it's in moments such as these that there can be no question.

The ex-agent's eyes are devoid of anything. It's more dangerous than fury.

" _John_. _Stop_."

One might think the smaller man with the limp is either astonishingly brave or stupid as he approaches the taller man.

" _John_ ," he says again. It's more forceful this time.

There is no visible change in the taller man's expression, but the pound of fists miraculously ceases. The now unconscious and bloody monster of a man crashes to the pavement as the ex-agent relinquishes his grip. Reese's gaze is flat, unfeeling, and mixed with something else. Something cold. Something lethal.

Once, Finch would have recoiled from it, would have questioned his own terribly misguided sanity at having recruited such a dangerous man into his death-defying crusade to play God.

No longer.

And certainly not today. In fact, today Finch is tempted to stand by while Reese delivers justice of his own making.

Because otherwise there will be no other kind, Finch knows.

He sees Reese search the unconscious body a second time, cold and meticulous, and knows what he's looking for, knows it won't matter. Even with identification the man will walk free. Their resources are too sparse, the risks too high. They should not even have intervened. Not here. Not now. Not where maintaining relative anonymity is more imperative than ever before. They are in a game where they are no longer the only players. Where their opponent's reach is far too vast.

But in an instant none of it had mattered. In an instant Finch knew it never would. In an instant they had both reacted. In an instant Finch is reminded of the helplessness. The helplessness that had torn at him piece by piece until he could bear it no longer. The helplessness of having all the answers but no solution. The helplessness of feeling responsible.

The helplessness he'd felt before he'd found Reese.

He looks down at the battered young woman they spared from an unspeakable violence and realizes he was wrong. They can't walk away. Just as they hadn't in this instance, just as they hadn't all those numbers before, they can't walk away. They can't walk away from…whatever it is that they'd been doing.

He'd been wrong to even ask.

Especially of Reese.

Reese, the muscle, the strength, the man of action. The sword. The protector of innocents. And, though few would know it, the heart. Finch knows the ex-CIA agent has more reason than anyone to harbor nothing but bitterness and hatred for the world and everyone in it. His past is a spider web of bitterness and betrayal that is unthinkable to most. Yet he still finds a way to see the good. He carries a kindness to anyone suffering or in need of help, no matter who they are or what they've done.

No, they cannot walk away. They will continue this crusade of theirs.

Or die trying.

o~o~o

The woman reminds herself to run before it's too late, but she still can't seem to get her limbs to obey. Shock, she guesses. Shock is holding her prisoner.

She goes rigid as the smaller man approaches.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

It's unexpectedly kind, his voice. She allows herself to look up. The man with the glasses is hovering over her with apprehension in his features, but his eyes hold a benevolence that eases some of her panic, even when confusion sets in. This is not the way it usually goes.

She decides the man with the pronounced limp likely offers her no threat.

The same cannot be said of his partner, however. She has seen enough to know this.

Her grip tightens on the tattered fabric of what remains of her clothes and of her dignity and she realizes her whole body is shaking. She suddenly feels terribly exposed as she tries to pull the remaining fabric closed around her breasts. Shock, yes. She must be in shock.

She does not notice until it's too late—the man's tall, dark, and dangerous partner is suddenly standing directly beside her.

Her expression must have given her away because the smaller man is speaking to her again.

"It's all right," he says kindly. "He's not nearly as frightening as he looks, I assure you." He allows a small smile.

She does not find this in the least bit assuring. She's seen this dark stranger take down her first assaulter with terrifying ease and chilling equanimity.

She can only hope he finishes with her quickly.

She feels a heavy weight land across her shoulders, and it takes her several seconds to register with no small amount of astonishment that the taller man has removed his long trench coat and placed it over her shoulders, effectively shielding her from the humility of her ruined attire. His sharp blue eyes have not wavered from that steely and frightening stoicism, and so she's struck dumb by the painstaking gentleness with which he settled the coat around her. It's still warm. And big. It engulfs her completely.

She's so taken with bewilderment by this new turn of events that she allows herself to consider she's been wrong—perhaps neither of these two men meant to do her harm after all. Against her better judgment, the tight sense of panic in her loosens marginally yet significantly, and she actually feels tears press behind her eyes at the unexpected kindness.

Paralyzing shock now slowly transitioning through to the emotional upheaval inductive of having so harrowingly escaping such a brutalizing attack, she forces herself to stand. The contact points of the recent blows protest the movement and she staggers beneath the weight of the coat. A strong hand immediately catches her elbow and rights her again.

And it's silly, utter ludicrous, _naïve_ , but she feels an odd sense of… _safety_ that seems to originate from the taller man's firm grip.

Yes, she's completely lost her mind, she decides. Utterly ridiculous.

He releases her once she's steady on her feet, and feeling somewhat braver she chances a look up at her mysterious knight in shining amour.

He's even taller than she anticipates, towering over her by at least a foot; she has to crane her neck up to look at him. He's not looking at her; his eyes are moving about their surroundings with constant precision. His expression hasn't changed. However, now that she's not quite so terrified by it— _quite_ being an operative word—she realizes that he's extraordinarily handsome. Features chiseled to perfection, he's the very epitome of _Tall, Dark, and Handsome_. There are several aging but still violent looking bruises marring his cheek and jaw, but these only seem to add to the effect—though after seeing him in combat she'd rather not think how he might have obtained them. She senses a profound remoteness in him and finds herself wondering when he last smiled.

She looks away.

The smaller man with the glasses is regarding her worriedly.

She realizes she has yet to speak. "I…I'm fine," she manages, though her voice sounds weak to her ears. She swallows. "Thank you for…" She does not finish.

He seems to understand; he offers her a tiny nod and smile.

He asks her if she has someone to call, somewhere to go. His countenance is benign in a way that she thinks must be nearly extinct. It calms her, despite herself.

She nods to his questions, but he does not look convinced. He's agitated in a way she does not understand. His eyes go to the unconscious and bloody mess of a figure lying several feet away.

His formidable and silent partner is still scanning their surroundings and appears to be paying them no heed. An unusual pair.

She's perplexed by the smaller man's reluctance and apologetic tone, as if something should be done about the man lying crumpled on the pavement, as if he has the power to tie everything up in a neat package and has failed to do so. As if justice could be served.

It does not happen that way, she knows. Not in her world. Certainly not in this corner of it.

But then, neither did it happen in her world that two strangers rescue a hapless female in a place where no one else dares.

She assures them once again that she's fine, and after advising her not to linger—this, again, from the man with the glasses; his partner still has not spoken—the two men make their exit.

Standing alone now in the darkened alleyway she watches the two retreating figures, their forms backlit by the scantly lit street.

The contrast between the two is almost laughable. Yet there's something intangible that connects them. They walk in complete synchronization. The taller man's adjustment to account for the other's limp and shorter step is so effortless, _automatic_ , that it can only be from prolonged familiarity. When they approach the street corner the taller man's posture changes subtly; he's now positioned just ahead of his companion, effectively shielding the smaller man from any potential threats the blind spot might conceal.

Reminded of her own vulnerability, she pulls the long trench coat closed tighter around her and realizes the tall stranger has left it behind. She contemplates calling out to him but reasons he would not have given it to her only to take it back a moment later. He must have meant to leave it behind. Another act of kindness nearly all but extent. She hugs it closer to her body. There are no traces of cologne, aftershave, or any identifying scents. It's as mysterious as its owner.

And then she feels it. A dampness where the coat touches her thigh.

Blood.

On the inside of the fabric.

Not her attacker's.

The stranger's.

She should feel repelled from it, her stomach churning. Instead, all she feels is a sudden profound sadness for the gratuitous, gentle stranger who had saved her, and his partner with the kind eyes.

Too kind. They were too kind for this cruel world they live. Bleeding, broken, isolated—this is their only recompense.

Heroes don't exist. But, she concedes, if they did, she might just have met two of them.

Watching the enigmatic pair disappear from sight, she can't help but think they know something the rest of the world does not.


End file.
